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A  TREE  WITH  A  BIRD  IN  IT 


A  TREE  WITH  A 
BIRD  IN  IT: 

A  SYMPOSIUM    OF    CONTEMPORARY 

AMERICAN    POETS    ON    BEING 

SHOWN    A    PEAR-TREE    ON 

WHICH  SAT  A  CRACKLE 


BY 

MARGARET  WIDDEMER 

AUTHOS  or  "FACTOIIES."  "  TH«  OLD  «OAD  TO  PARADIII. 

"CBOSS    CURRENTS."     ITC. 


WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
WILLIAM  SAPHIER 


NEW    YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1922,    BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACK   AND   COMPANY,    INC. 


PRINTED    IN    THK    U     •     A     »Y 

THK    OUINN    •     BODKN    COMPAN 

MAHWAY.     N      J. 


THIS    IS    DEDICATED 

WITH    MY   FORGIVENESS   IN   ADVANCE 

TO   THE   POETS    PARODIED  IN   THIS    BOOK 

AND   THE   POETS    NOT   PARODIED   IN   THIS   BOOK 


504040 


FOREWORD 
BY  THE  COLLATOR 

A  little  while  since,  I  had  the  fortune  to  live 
in  a  house,  outside  of  whose  windows  there  grew 
a  pear-tree.  On  the  branches  of  this  tree  lived 
a  green  bird  of  indeterminate  nature.  I  do  not 
know  what  his  real  name  was,  but  the  name,  to 
quote  our  great  exemplar  Lewis  Carroll,  by  which 
his  name  was  called  was  the  Crackle.  He  seemed 
perfectly  willing  to  be  addressed  thus,  and  ac 
cordingly  was. 

Aside  from  watching  the  Pear-Tree  and  the 
Crackle,  my  other  principal  occupation  that  win 
ter  was  watching  the  Poetry  Society  of  America 
now  and  then  at  its  monthly  meetings.  It  oc 
curred  to  me  finally  to  invite  such  members  of 
it  as  cared  to  come,  following  many  good  ex 
amples,  to  an  outdoor  symposium  under  the  tree. 
The  result  follows. 

MARGARET  WIDDEMER. 

P.  S.— The  tree  died. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

FACE 

FOREWORD  :  BY  THE  COLLATOR v 

JESSIE  B.   RITTENHOUSE       .  Resignation      ....  3 

EDWIN  MARK  HA  ic       .     .     .  The  Bird  with  the  Woe  4 

WITTER  BYNNER    ....  The  Unity  of  Oneness  .  7 

AMY   LOWELL Oiseaurie 8 

EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS  .     .     .  Itnri  Swazey  ....  9 

EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON  Rambuncto      ....  10 

ROBERT  FROST The  Bird  Misunderstood  12 

CARL  SANDBURG     ....  Chicago  Memories     .      .  13 
EDITH  M.  THOMAS     .     .     .  Frost  and  Sandburg  To 
night    17 

CHARLES  HANSON  TOWNE   .    The  Unquiet  Singer      .  18 

SARA   TEASDALE     .     ...  At  Autumn     ....  20 

EZRA  POUND Rainuv 21 

MARGARET  WIDDEICER  .     .     .  The  Sighing  Tree      .     .  24 
RICHARD  LE  GALLJENNE  .     .  Ballade  of  Spring  Chick 
ens       27 

ANGELA  MORGAN    .     .     .     .  Oh!  Bird!       •     •     •     •  29 

CONRAD  AIKEN The  Charnel  Bird     .     .  30 

MARY  CAROLYN  DAVIES   .     .  A     Young     Girl     to     a 

Young  Bird  ...  34 

MARGUERITE  WILKINSON       .  The  Rune  of  the  Nude  35 

ALINE  KILMER Admiration      ....  37 

WILLIAM  ROSE  and 

STEPHEN    VINCENT   BENET  The  Crackle  of  Grog    .  38 

LOLA  RIDGE Preenings 42 

EDNA   ST.  VINCENT  MILLAY  Tea  o'  Herbs  ....  46 

JOHN  V.  A.  WEAVER  .     .     .  The  Weaver  Bird      .     .  50 

vii 


Contents 

FACE 

DAVID  MORTON Sonnet :  Trees  Are  Not 

Ships 52 

ELINOR  WYLIE The  Crackle  Is  the  Loon      53 

LEONORA   SPEYER   .     .     .     .  A  Landscape  Gets  Per 
sonal    54 

CORINNE    ROOSEVELT    ROBIN-  The  Symposium  Leading 

SON Nowhere  ....       57 

RIDGELY  TORRENCE       .     .      .  The  Fowl  of  a  Thousand 

Flights      ....       59 

HENRY  VAN  DYKE      .     .     .   The  Roiling  of  Henry  .      61 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE  ....  Pant  ings       ....          63 

BLISS  CARMAN The  Wild <65 

GRACE  HAZARD  and 

HILDA  CONKLING  .     .     .   They  See  the  Birdie      .       67 

THEODOSIA  GARRISON  .     .     .  A   Ballad  of    the    Bird 

Dance    of   Pierrette      69 

WILLIAM  GRIFFITH     .     .     .  Pierrette  Remembers  an 

Engagement  ...       71 

EDGAR  GUEST Ain't  Nature  Wonderful!       72 

DON  MARQUIS  »     .     .     .     .   The     Meeting     of     the 

Columns    ....       75 

CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY     y.     .  The      Mocking-Hoarse- 

Bird 80 

FRANKLIN  PIERCE  ADAMS     .  To  a  Crackle  ....      83 

THOMAS  AUGUSTIN  DALY   .  Carlo  the  Gardener  .     .      84 

VACHEL  LINDSAY  ....  The    Hoboken     Crackle 

and  the  Hobo     .     .       85 

PERCY  MACKAYE 

JOSEPHINE  PRESTON  PEABODY[D|"^U^  Bird  of  a      go 

ISABEL  FISKE  CONANT 

ARTHUR  GUITERMAN        .     .  A   Tree  zrith  a  Bird  in 

It:   Rhymed  Review    101 


vin 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PACE 

EDWIN   MARKHAM         .  5 

WITTER  BYNNER   .       .  6 

CARL  SANDBURG     .  15 

MARGARET  WIDDEMER  .  25 

CONRAD  AIKEN      .  •       31 

THE  BENETS  ...  -39 

LOLA  RIDGE    ....  43 

EDNA  ST.  VINCENT  MILLAY  47 

LEONORA  SPEYER   ....  •       SS 

EDGAR  GUEST        ...  .73 

DON  MARQUIS  AND  CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY  .       77 

VACHEL  LINDSAY   .  87 


A  TREE  WITH  A  BIRD  IN  IT 


Jessie  B.  RUtenhouse 

(She  steps  brightly  forward   with  an  air  of 
soprano  introduction.) 

RESIGNATION 

I  look  from  out  my  window, 

Beloved,  and  I  see 
A  bird  upon  a  pear  bough, 

But  what  is  that  to  me? 

Because  the  thought  comes  icy; 

That  bird  you  never  knew — 
It's  not  your  bird  or  pear  tree, 

And  what  is  it  to  you? 


EdiviriMarkMm 

(who,  though  he  had  to  lay  a  cornerstone, 
unveil  a  bust  of  somebody,  give  two  lectures 
and  write  encouraging  introductions  to  the 
works  of  five  young  poets  before  catching 
the  three-ten  for  Staten  Island,  offered  his 
reaction  in  a  benevolent  and  unhurried 
manner.) 

THE  BIRD  WITH  THE  \VOE 

Poets  to  men  a  curious  sight  afford; 
Still  they  will  sing,  though  all  around  are  bored; 
But  this  wise  grackle  does  a  kinder  thing; 
Silent  he's  bored,  while  all  around  him  sing! 


Witter  Bynner 

(Prefaced  by  a  short  baritone  talk  on  Chinese 
architecture.) 

THE  UNITY  OF  ONENESS 

Celia,  have  you  been  to  China? 

There  upon  a  mystic  tree 
Sits  a  bird  who  murmurs  Chinese 

Of  the  Me  in  Thee. 

'Neath  that  tree  of  willow-pattern 
Twice  seven  thousand  scornful  go 

Paraphrasers  and  translators 
Of  the  long-deceased  Li-Po: 

Chinese  feelings  swift  discerning 
Without  all  this  time  and  fuss 

Let  us  eat  that  bird,  thus  learning 
Of  the  Him  in  Us! 


Amy  Lowell 

(Fixing  her  glasses  firmly  on  the  rest  of  the 
Poetry  Society  in  a  way  which  makes  them 
with  difficulty  refrain  from  writhing.) 

OISEAURIE 

Glunk! 

I  toss  my  heels  up  to  my  head  .  .  . 

That  was  a  bird  I  heard  say  glunk 

As  I  walked  statelily  through  my  extensive,  expen 
sive  English  country  estate 

In  a  pink  brocade  with  silver  buttons,  a  purple 
passementerie  cut  with  panniers,  a  train, 
and  faced  with  watered  silk: 

But  it 

Is  dead  now! 
(The  bird) 
Probably  putrescent 
And  green.  .  .  . 

I  scrabble  my  toes  .  .  . 
Glunk! 


Edgar  Lcc  Masters 

(Making  a  statement  which  you  may  take  or 
leave,  but  convincing  you  entirely. ) 

IMRI  SWAZEY 

I    was    a    shock-headed    boy    bringing    in    the 

laundry; 

Why  did  I  try  for  that  damn  bird,  anyway? 
I  suppose  I  had  been  in  the  habit  of  aiming  for 

the  pears. 

But  I  chucked  a  stone,  anyhow, 
And  it  ricocheted  and  hit  my  head, 
And   as   it   hadn't  any  brains  inside  the   stone 

busted  it 

And  there  I  was,  dead. 

And  dead  with  me  were  all  the  improper  things 
I'd  got  out  of  the  servants  about  their  employers 
Bringing  in  the  laundry; 
But  the  grackle  sings  on. 
Sing  forever,  O  grackle! 
I  died,  knowing  lots  of  things  you  don't  know! 


Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 

(He  mutters  wearily  in  an  undertone.) 

RAMBUNCTO 

Well,  they're  quite  dead,  Rambuncto;  thoroughly 

dead. 

It  was  a  natural  thing  enough;  my  eyes 
Stared  baffled  down  the  forest-aisles,  brown  and 

green, 
Not  learning  what  the  marks  were.     Still,  who 

learns? 
Not  I,  who  stooped  and  picked  the  things  that 

day, 
Scarlet  and  gold  and  smooth,  friend  .  .  .  smooth 

enough! 

And  she's  in  a  vault  now,  old  Jane  Fotheringham, 
My  mother-in-law;  and  my  wife's  seven  aunts, 
And  that  cursed  bird  that  used  to  sit  and  croak 
Upon    their    pear-tree — they    threw    scraps    to 

him— 

My  wife,  too.    Lord,  that  was  a  curious  thing! 
Because — "I    don't    like    mushrooms    much,"    I 

said, 

And  they  ate  all  I  picked.    And  then  they  died. 
But  ...  Well,  who  knows  it  isn't  better  that 

way? 

10 


It's  quieter,  at  least.  .  .  .  Rambuncto — friend- 
Why,  you're  not  going?  .  .  .  Well — it's  a  stupid 

year, 
And   the  world's  very  useless.  .  .  .  Sorry.  .  .  . 

Still 

The  dusk  intransience  that  I  much  prefer 
Leaves  place  for  little  hope  and  less  regret. 
I  don't  suppose  he'd  care,  to  stay  to  dine 
Under  the  circumstances.  .  .  .  What's  life  for? 


TI 


Robert  Frost 

(Rather  nervously,  retreating  with  haste  in  the 
wake  of  Mr.  Robinson  as  soon  as  he  had 
finished.) 

THE  BIRD  MISUNDERSTOOD 

There  was  a  grackle  sat  on  our  old  pear  tree — 
Don't  ask  me  why — I  never  did  really  know; 
But  he  made  my  wife  and  me  feel,   for  really 

the  very  first  time 
We  were  out  in  the  actual   country,  hindering 

things  to  grow; 

It  gave  us  rather  a  queer  feeling  to  hear  the 

grackle  grackle, 
But  when  it  got  to  be  winter  time  he  got  up 

and  went  thence 
And  now  we  shall  never  know,  though  we  watch 

the  tree  till  April, 
Whether  his  curious  crying  ever  made  song  or 

sense. 


Carl  Sandburg 

(Striking  from  time  to  time  a  few  notes  on 
a  mouth-organ,  with  a  wonderful  effect  of 
human  brotherhood  which  does  not  quite 
include  the  East.) 

CHICAGO  MEMORIES 

Crackles,  trees— 

I  been  thinkin'   ?bout  'em  all:   I  been  thinkin' 

they're  all  right: 
Nothin'  much — Gosh,  nothin'  much  against  God, 

even. 

God  made  little  apples,  a  hobo  sang  in  Kankakee, 
Shattered  apples,  I  picked  you  up  under  a  tree, 

red  wormy  apples,  I  ate  you.  .  .  . 
That  lets  God  out. 
There  were  three  green  birds  on  the  tree,  there 

were  three  wailing  cats  against  a  green 

dawn.  .  .  . 
'Gene  Field  sang,  "The  world  is  full  of  a  number 

of  things," 
'Gene  Field  said,  "When  they  caught  me  I  was 

living  in  a  tree.  .  .  ." 
'Gene  Field  said  everything  in  Chicago  of  the 

eighties. 

13 


Now  he's  dead,  I  say  things,  say  'em  well, 
too.  .  .  . 

'Gene  Field  .  .  .  back  in  the  lost  days,  back 
in  the  eighties, 

Singing,  colyumning  .  .  .  'Gene  Field  .  .  .  for 
gotten  .  .  . 

Back  in  Arkansaw  there  was  a  green  bird,  too, 

I  can  remember  how  he  sang,  back  in  the  lost 
days,  back  in  the  eighties. 

Uncle  Yon  Swenson  under  the  tree  chewing 
slowly,  slowly.  .  .  . 

Memories,  memories! 

There  are  only  trees  now,  no  'Gene,  no  eighties 

Gray  cats,  I  can  feel  your  fur  in  my  heart  .  .  . 

Green  grackle,  I  remember  now, 

Back  in  the  lost  days,  back  in  the  eighties 

The  cat  ate  you. 


M 


Edith  M.  Thomas 

(She  tells  a  friend  in  confidence,  after  she  is 
safely  out  of  it  all.) 

FROST  AND  SANDBURG  TONIGHT 

Apple  green  bird  on  a  wooden  bough, 

And  the  brazen  sound  of  a  long,  loud  row, 

And  "Child,  take  the  train,  but  mind  what  you 

do- 
Frost,  tonight,  and  Sandburg  too!" 

Then  I  sally  forth,  half  wild,  half  cowed, 
Till  I  come  to  the  surging,  impervious  crowd, 
The  wine-filled,  the  temperance,  the  sober,  the 

pied, 
The  Poets  that  cover  the  countryside! 

The  Poets  I  never  would  meet  till  tonight! 
A  gleam  of  their  eyes  in  the  fading  light, 
And  I  took  them  all  in — the  enormous  throng— 
And  with  one  great  bound  I  bolted  along. 

If  the  garden  had  merely  held  birds  and  flowers! 
But  I  hear  a  voice — they  have  talked  for  hours — 
"Frost  tonight—"  if  'twere  merely  he! 
Half  wild,  half  cowed,  I  flee,  I  flee! 

17 


Charles  Hanson  Towne 

(Who  rather  begrudged  the  time  he  used  up 
in  going  out  to  the  suburbs.) 

THE  UNQUIET  SINGER 

He  had  been  singing,  but  I  had  not  heard  his 

voice; 

He  had  been  bothering  the  rest  with  song; 
But  I,  most  comfortably  far 
Within  the  city's  stimulating  jar 
Feeling  for  bus-conductors  and  for  flats, 
And  shop-girls  buying  too  expensive  hats, 
And  silver-serviced  dinners, 
And  various  kinds  of  pleasant  urban  sinners, 
And  riding  on  the  subway  and  the  L, 
Had  much  beside  his  song  to  hear  and  tell. 

But  one  day  (it  was  Spring,  when  poets  ride 
Afield  to  wild  poetic  festivals) 
I,  innocently  making  calls 
Was  snatched  by  a  swift  motor  toward  his  tree 
(Alas,  but  lady  poets  will  do  this  to  thee 
If  thou  art  decorative,  witty  or  a  Man) 
And    heard    him    sing,    and    on    the   grass    did 
bide. 

18 


But  my  whole  day  was  sadder  for  his  words, 
And  I  was  thinner 

Because,  in  spite  of  my  most  careful  plan 
I  missed  a  very  pleasant  little  dinner  .  .  . 
In  short,  unless  well-cooked,  I  don't  like  Birds. 


Sara  Teasdale 

(Who  got  Miss  Rittenhouse  to  read  it  for  her.) 

AT  AUTUMN 

I  bend  and  watch  the  grackles  billing, 
And  fight  with  tears  as  I  float  by; 
O  be  a  fowl  for  my  heart's  filling  1 
O  be  a  bird,  yet  never  fly! 


20 


Ezra  Pound 

(Mailed  disdainfully  by  him  from  anywhere 
but  America,  and  read  prayerfully  by  a 
committee  from  Chicago.) 

RAINUV:    A   ROMANTIC   BALLAD   FROM 
THE  EARLY  BASQUE 

...  so  then  naturally 

This  Count  Rainuv  I  speak  of 

(Certainly  I  did  not  expect  you  would  ever  have 
heard  of  him; 

You  are  American  poets,  aren't  you? 

That's  rather  awful  ...  I  am  the  only  Ameri 
can  poet 

I  could  ever  tolerate  .  .  .  well,  sniff  and  pass.  .  .  .) 

Therefore  .  .  .  well,  I  knew  Rainuv. 

(My  P.  G.  course  at  Penn,  you'll  remember; 

A  little  Anglo-Saxon  and  Basuto, 

But  Provencal,  mostly.  Most  don't  go  in  for 
that.  .  .  . 

You  haven't,  of  course  .  .  .  What,  no  Provencal? 

Well,  of  course,  I  know 

Rather  more  than  you  do.    That's  my  specialty. 

But  then — Omnis  Gallia  cst  divisa — but  no  mat 
ter. 

21 


Not  fit,  perhaps  you'd  say,  that,  to  be  quoted 
Before  ladies.  .  .  .  That's  your  rather  amusing 

prudishness.  .  .  .) 
Well,  this  Rainuv,  then, 
A  person  with  a  squint  like  a  flash 
Of  square  fishes  .  .  .  being  rather  worse  than 

most 

Of  the  usual  literati 

Said,  being  carried  off  by  desire  of  boasting 
That  he  knew  all  the  mid-Victorians 
Et  ab  lor  bos  amics: 
(He  thought  it  was  something  to  boast  of.) 

We'll  say  he  said  he  smoked  with  Tennyson, 
And — deeper  pit — pax  vobiscum — went  to  vespers 
With  Adelaide  Anne  Procter;  helped  Bob  Brown 
ing  elope 

With  Elizabeth  and  her  lapdog  (said  it  bit  him) 
Said  he  was  the  first  man  Blake  told 
All  about  the  angels  in  a  pear-tree  at  Peckham 

Rye 
Blake  drew  them  for  him,  he  said;   they  were 

grackles,  not  angels— 
(Blake's  not  a  mid-Victorian,  but  you  don't  know 

better) 

So  ...  we   come,    being    slightly    irritated,    to 
facing  him  down. 

22 


".  .  .  And  George  Eliot?"  we  ask  lightly. 
"Roomed  with  him,"  nodded  Rainuv  confidently, 
"At  college!11  .  .  .  Ah,  bos  amid  bos  amid 
Rainuv  is  a  king  to  you.  .  .  . 
Three  centuries  from  now  (you  dead  and  messy) 

men  whispering  insolently 
(Eeni  meeni  mini  mo  .  .  .)  will  boast  that  their 

great-grand-uncles 
Were  kicked  by  me  in  passing.  .  .  . 


Margaret  Widdemer 

(Clutching  a   non-existent  portiere  with   one 
hand.) 

THE  SIGHING  TREE 

The  folk  of  the  wood  called  me— 
"There  sits  a  golden  bird 

Upon  your  mother's  pear-tree— 
But  I  never  said  a  word. 

The  Sleepy  People  whispered — 

"The  bird  is  singing  now." 
But  I  felt  not  then  like  leaving  bed 

Nor  listening  beneath  the  bough. 

But  the  wronged  world  beat  my  portals — 
"Come  out  or  be  sore  oppressed!" 

So  I  threw  a  stone  at  the  grackle 
And  my  throbbing  heart  had  rest. 


24 


Richard  Le  Gallicnne 

(Advancing  with  a  dreamy  air  of  there  still 
being  a  Yellow  Book.) 

BALLADE  OF  SPRING  CHICKENS 

Spring  comes — yet  where  the  dream  that  glows? 

There  only  waves  upon  the  lea 
A  lonely  pear-bough  where  doth  doze 

A  bird  of  green,  and  merely  he: 

Why  weave  of  him  our  poetry? 
Why  of  a  Crackle  need  we  sing? 

Ah,  far  another  fowl  for  me — 
I  seek  Spring  Chickens  in  the  Spring. 

Though  May  returns,  and  frisking  shows 

Her  ankles  through  this  white  clad  tree, 
Alas,  old  Spring's  gone  with  the  rose, 
Gone  is  all  old  romance  and  glee — 
Yet  still  a  joy  remains  to  me — 
Softly  our  lyric  lutes  unstring, 

Far  from  this  Crackle  we  shall  flee 
And  seek  Spring  Chickens  in  the  Spring! 

Too  soon  Youth's  mss  must  close, 
(Omar)  its  rose  be  pot-pourri: 
a? 


What  of  this  bird  and  all  his  woes! 

Catulla,  I  would  fly  to  thee — 

Bright  bird  of  luring  lingerie, 
Of  bushy  bob,  of  knees  aswing, 

This  golden  task  be  mine  in  fee, 
To  seek  Spring  Chickens  in  the  Spring! 

Envoi 

Prince,  let  us  leave  this  grove,  pardie, 

A  flapper  is  a  fairer  thing: 
Let  us  fare  fast  where  such  there  be, 

And  seek  Spring  Chickens  in  the  Spring! 


28 


Angela  Morgan 

(Carefully  lifting  her  Greek  robe  off  the  wet 
grass,  and  patting  her  fillet  with  one  white 
glove,  recites  passionately.) 

OH!   BIRD! 

I  heard  a  flaming  noise  that  screamed— 
''Man,  panting,  crushed,  must  be  redeemed! 
Man!     All  the  crowd  of  him! 
Quiet  or  loud  of  him! 
Men!     Raging  souls  of  them! 
Heaps  of  them,  shoals  of  them! 
Hurtling  impassioned  through  fiery-tongued  rap 
ture! 

Leaping  for  glories  all  avid  to  capture 
Bounteous  aeons  of  star-beating  bliss!" 
I  heard  a  voice  cry,  and  I'm  sure  it  said  this: 
Though  the  cook  said  the  noise  was  a  tree  and 

a  bird  .  .  . 
But  I  heard!    Gods,  I  heard/ 


Conrad  Aiken 

(Creeping   mysteriously   out   of   the   twilight, 
draped  in  a  complex.) 

THE  CHARNEL  BIRD 

Forslin  murmurs  a  melodious  impropriety 
Musing    on    birds    and    women    dead    aeons 

ago.  .  .  . 

Was  he  not,  once,  this  fowl,  a  gay  bird  in  society? 
Can  any  one  tell?  .  .  .  After  an  evening  out, 

who  can  know? 

Perhaps  Cleopatra,  lush  in  her  inadequate  wrap 
pings, 
Lifted  him  once  to  her  tatbebs.  .  .  .  Perhaps 

Helen  of  Troy 
Found  him  more  live  than  her  Paris  ...  a  bird 

among  dead  ones.  .  .  . 

Perhaps  Semiramis  .  .  .  once  ...  in  a  pink 
unnamable  joy  *  *  * 

I  tie  my  shoes  politely,  a  salute  to  this  bird  in 

his  pear-tree; 
.  .  .  What  is  a  pear-tree,  after  all.  .  .  .  What 

is  a  bird? 

What  is  a  shoe,  or  a  Forslin,  or  even  a  Senlin? 

30 


What  is  ...  a  what?  ...  Is  there  any  one 

who  has  heard?  .  .  . 

What  is  it  crawls  from  the  kiss-thickened,  Freud 
ian  darkness, 

Amorous,  catlike  .  .  .  Ah,  can  it  be  a  cat? 
I  would  so  much  rather  it  had  been  a  scarlet 

harlot, 

There    is    so    much    more    genuine    poetry    in 
that. 


(Note  by  the  Collator:  It  was,  in  fact,  Fluffums,  the 
Angora  cat  belonging  to  the  Jenkinses  on  the  corner;  and 
the  disappointment  was  too  much  for  Mr.  Aiken,  who 
fainted  away,  and  had  to  be  taken  back  to  Boston  before 
completing  his  poem,  which  he  had  intended  to  fill  an 
entire  book.) 


33 


Mary  Carolyn  Davies 

(Impetuously,  with  a  floppy  hat.) 

A  YOUNG  GIRL  TO  A  YOUNG  BIRD 

When  one  is  young,  you  know,  then  one  can  sing 

Of  anything: 
One  is  so  young— so  pleasurably  so — 

How  can  one  know 
If  God  made  little  apples,  or  yet  pears, 

Or  ...  if  God  cares? 

You  are  young,  maybe,  Crackle;  that  is  why 

I  want  to  cry 
Seeing  you  watch  the  poems  that  I  say 

To-night,  to-day  .  .  . 

This  little  boy-bird  seems  to  nod  to  me 

With  sympathy: 
He  is  so  young:  it  must  be  that  is  why  .  .  . 

As  young  as  I! 


34 


Marguerite  Wilkinson 

(Advancing  with  sedate  courtesy  in  a  long- 
sleeved,  high-necked  lecture  costume.) 

THE  RUNE  OF  THE  NUDE 

I  will  set  my  slim  strong  soul  on  this  tree  with 

no  leaves  upon  it, 
I  will  lift  up  my  undressed  dreams  to  the  nude 

and  ethical  sky: 
This  bird  has  his  feathers  upon  him:   he  shall 

not  have  even  a  sonnet: 

Until  he  is  stripped  of  his  last  pin-plume  I  will 
sing  of  my  mate  and  I! 

My  ancestors  rise  from  their  graves  to  be  shocked 

at  my  soul's  wild  climbing 
(They  were  strong,  they  were  righteous,  my 
ancestors,  but  they  always  kept  on  their 
clothes) 
My  mate  is  the  best  of  all  mates  alive:  his  voice 

is  a  raptured  rhyming: 

He  chants  "Come  Down!"  but  it  cannot  come, 
either  for  him  or  those! 


35 


My  ancestors  pound  from  their  ouija-board:  my 

mate  leaps  in  swift  indignation: 
I  must  tell  the  world  of  their  wonders,  but  I 

must  be  strong  and  free — 
Though  all  sires  and  all  mates  cry  out  in  a  runic 

incantation, 

My  soul  shall  be  stripped  and  buttonless— 
it  shall  dwell  in  a  naked  tree! 


A  line  Kilmer 

(With  a  certain  aloofness.) 

ADMIRATION 

Kenton 's  arrogant  eyes  watch  the  Widdemer  pear- 
tree, 

His  thistle-down-footed  sister  puts  out  her  tongue 
at  him.  .  .  . 

Kenton,  what  do  you  see?  That  yonder  is  only 
a  bare  tree; 

Come,  carry  Deborah  home;  she  is  gossamer- 
light  and  slim. 

"Aw,  mother,  but  I  don't  want  to!"  Kenton  re 
plies  with  devotion, 

"I've  gathered  you  stones  for  the  bird;  come  on, 
don't  you  want  to  throw  "em?" 

Ah,  Kenton,  Kenton,  my  child,  who  but  you 
would  have  such  an  emotion? 

But  in  spite  of  it  I  admire  you,  as  you'll  see 
when  you  read  this  poem. 


37 


The  Benet  Brothers 

(They  sing  arm  in  arm,  Stephen  Vincent  hav 
ing  rather  more  to  do  with  the  verse  and 
William  Rose  with  the  chorus.  Their  sister 
Laura  is  too  busy  looking  for  a  fairy  under 
the  tree  to  add  to  the  family  contribution.) 

THE  CRACKLE  OF  GROG 

It  was  old  Yale  College 

Made  me  what  I  am — 
You  oughto  heard  my  mother 

When  I  first  said  damn! 
I  put  a  pin  in  sister's  chair, 

She  jumped  sky-high  .  .  . 
I  don't  know  what'll  happen 

When  I  come  to  die! 

But  oh,  the  stars  burst  wild  in  c  glorious  crimson 

whanglc, 
There  was  foam  on  the  beer  mile-deep,  mile-high, 

and  the  pickles  were  piled  like  seas, 
Nceara's  hair  was  a  flapper's  bob  that  turned  to 

a  ten-mile  tangle, 
And  the  forests  were  crowded  with  unicorns,  and 

gold  elephants  charged  up  trees! 
38 


Forceps  in  the  dentist's  chair, 

Razors  in  the  lather  .  .  . 
Lord,  the  black  experience 

I've  had  time  to  gather  .  .  . 
But  I've  thought  of  one  thing 

That  may  pull  me  through— 
I'm  a  reg'lar  devil 

But  the  Devil  was,  too! 

There  were  thousands  oj  trees  with  knotholcd 
knees  that  kicked  in  a  league-long  rapture, 
Birds  green  as  a  seasick  emerald  in  a  million- 
mile  shrieking  row — 
//  was  sixty  dollars  or  sixty  days  when  the  cop 

had  made  his  capture.  .  .  . 
But  God!  the  bun  was  a  gorgeous  one,  and 
the  Faculty  did  not  know/ 


Lola  Ridge 

(Who  apparently  did  not  care  for  the  suburbs.) 

PREENINGS 

I  preen  myself.  .  .  . 

I  ... 

Always  do  ... 

My  ego  expanding  encompasses  .  .  . 

Everything,  naturally.  .  .  . 

This  bird  preens  himself  .  .  . 
It  is  our  only  likeness.  .  .  . 

Ah,  God,  I  want  a  Ghetto 

And  a  Freud  and  an  alley  and  some  Immigrants 

calling  names  .  .  . 
God,  you  know 
How  awful  it  is.  ... 
Here  are  trees  and  birds  and  clouds 
And  picturesquely  neat  children  across  the  way 

on  the  grass 
Not  doing  anything 
Improper  .  .  . 

(Poor  little  fools,  I  mustn't  blame  them  for  that 
Perhaps  they  never 
Knew  How.  .  .  .) 

42 


But  oh,  God,  take  me  to  the  nearest  trolley  line! 
This  is  a  country  landscape— 
I  can't  stand  it! 

God,  take  me  away — 
There  is  no  Sex  here 
And  no  Smell! 


45 


Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay 

(Recites  in  a  flippant  voice  which  occasionally 
chokes  up  with  irrepressible  emotion,  and 
clenching  her  hands  tensely  as  she  notices 
that  the  Crackle  has  hopped  twice.) 

TEA  O'  HERBS 

O  I  have  brought  in  now 

Bergamot, 
A  packet  o'  brown  senna 

And  an  iron  pot; 
In  my  scarlet  gown 

I  make  all  hot. 

And  other  men  and  girls 

Write  like  me 
Setting  herbs  a-plenty 

In  their  poetry 
(Bergamot  for  hair-oil, 

Bergamot  for  tea!) 

And  they  may  do  ill  now 

Or  they  may  do  well, 
(Little  should  I  care  now 

What  they  have  to  sell—) 

46 


But  what  bergamot  and  rue  are 
None  of  them  can  tell. 

All  above  my  bitter  tea 

I  have  set  a  lid 
(As  my  bitter  heart 

By  its  red  gown  hid) 
They  write  of  bergamot 

Because  I  did.  .  .  . 

(From  its  padded  hangers 
They've  snatched  my  red  gown, 

Men  as  well  as  girls 
And  gone  down  town, 

Flaunting  my  vocabulary, 
Every  verb  and  noun ! ) 

And  the  grackle  moans 

High  above  the  pot, 
He  is  sick  with  herbs  .  .  . 

And  am  I  not, 
Who  have  brought  in 
Bergamot? 


49 


John  V.  A.  Weaver 

(With  a  strong  note  of  infant  brutality.) 

THE  WEAVER  BIRD 

Gosh,  kid!  that  bird  a-cheepin'  in  the  tree 
All  green  an'  cocky — why,  it  might  be  me 
Singin'  to  you.  .  .  .  Wisht  I  was  just  a  bird 
Bringin'  you  worms — aw,  you  know,  things  I've 

heard 

'Bout  me — an'  flowers,  maybe  .  .  .  Like  as  not 
Somebody'd  get  me  with  an  old  slingshot 
An'  I'd  be  dead  .  .  .  Gee,  it'd  break  you  up! 
Nothin'  would  be  the  same  to  you,  I  bet, 
Knowin'  my  grave  was  out  there  in  the  wet 
And  we  two  couldn't  pet  no  more  .  .  .  Say,  kid, 
It  makes  me  weep,  same  as  it  always  did, 
To  think  how  bad  you'd  feel.  .  .  . 

I  got  a  thought, 

An  awful  funny  one  I  sorta  caught— 
Nobody  never  thought  that  way,  I  guess — 
When  I  get  blue,  an'  things  is  in  a  mess 
I  map  out  all  my  funeral,  the  hearses 
An'  nineteen  carriages,  an'  folks  with  verses 


Sayin'  how  great  I  was,  an'  all  like  that, 

An'  wreaths,  an'  girls  with  crapes  around  their 

hat 

Tellin'  the  world  how  bad  their  hearts  was  broke, 
An'    you,    just    smashed    to    think    I    had    to 

croak.  .  .  . 

I   can't  stand   that  bird,   somehow — makes  me 

cry.  ... 
The  world' U  be  darn  sorry  when  I  die/ 


David  Morton 

(Who,  being  very  polite,  only  thought  it.) 

SONNET:   TREES  ARE  NOT  SHIPS 

There  is  no  magic  in  a  living  tree, 
And,  if  they  be  not  sea-gulls,  none  in  birds: 
My  soul  is  seasick,  and  its  only  words 
Murmur  desire  for  things  more  like  a  sea. 
In  this  dry  landscape  here  there  seems  to  be 
No  water,  merely  persons  in  large  herds, 
Who,  by  their  long  remarks,  their  arid  girds, 
Come  from  the  Poetry  Society. 

What  could  be  drier,  where  all  things  are  dry? 
What  boots  this  bird,  this  pear-tree  spreading 

wide? 

Oh,  make  this  bird  they  all  discuss  to  pie, 
Hew  down  this  tree  and  shape  its  planks  to  ships, 
Send  them  to  sea  with  these  folk  nailed  inside, 
That  I  may  have  great  sonnets  on  my  lips! 


Elinor  Wylic 

(With  an  air  of  admitting  the  tragic  and  all 
important  fact.) 

THE  CRACKLE  IS  THE  LOON 

Never  believe  this  bird  connotes 

Jade  whorls  of  carven  commonness: 

Nor  as  from  ordinary  throats 

Slides  his  sharp  song  in  ice-strung  stress. 

He  is  the  cold  and  scornful  Loon, 
Who,  hoping  that  the  sun  shall  fail, 

Steeps  in  the  silver  of  the  moon 

His  burnished  claws,  his  chiseled  tail. 


53 


Leonora  Spcyer 

(Speaking,    notwithstanding,    with    unshaken 
poise.) 

A  LANDSCAPE  GETS  PERSONAL 

Beloved.  .  .  . 

I  cannot  bear  that  Bird 

He  is  green 

With  envy  of  My  Songs: 

"Cheep!    Cheep!" 

This  Tree 

Has  a  furtive  look 

And  the  Brook 

Says,  "Oh  .  .  .  Splash.  .  .  ." 

And  the  Grass  ...  the  terrible  Grass  .  .  . 
It  waves  at  me.  .  .  . 
It  is  too  flirtatious! 

Beloved, 

Let  us  leave  swiftly  .  .  . 

/  fear  this  Landscape/ 
It  would  vamp  me! 

54 


Corinnc  Roosevelt  Robinson 

(Who,  having  engagements  to  speak  at  ten 
unveilings,  and  nine  public  schools  and 
twelve  other  symposiums,  stayed  away,  but 
sent  this  handsome  tribute  by  wire.) 

THE  SYMPOSIUM  LEADING  NOWHERE 

I  sing  of  the  joy  of  the  Small  Paths 

The  paths  that  lead  nowhere  at  all, 
(Though  I  never  have  gone  on  them  nevertheless 

They  are  admirable,  and  so  small!) 
I  go  out  at  midnight  in  motors 

But,  being  a  Roosevelt,  I  drive 
Straight  ahead  on  the  neatly  paved  highway, 

For  I  wish  with  much  speed  to  arrive. 

Oh,  the  joy  and  effulgence  of  Small  Paths 

Surrounded  with  Birds  and  with  Trees 
I  would  love  to  go  down  on  a  Small  Path 

And  sit  in  communion  with  these! 
Oh,  Crackle,  I  yearn  to  be  with  you, 

For  poetic  communion  I  yearn 
But  I  have  ten  engagements  to  speak  in  the 
suburbs 

And  alas,  I've  no  time  to  return. 
57 


Oh  alas,  the  undone  moments, 

Oh,  the  myriad  hours  bereft 
Trying  to  be  twenty  people 

And  to  do  things  right  and  left. 
I  would  sit  down  by  a  Small  Path 

And  would  make  me  a  Large  Rhyme 
I  should  love  to  find  my  soul  there 

But  I  haven't  got  the  time! 


Ridgcly  Torrcnce 

(Who  felt  that  the  Bird  did  not  sufficiently 
uphold  Art.) 

THE  FOWL  OF  A  THOUSAND  FLIGHTS 

Crackle,  Crackle  on  your  tree, 

There's  something  wrong  to-day, 
In  the  moonlight,  in  the  quiet  evening, 

You  will  rise  and  croak  and  fly  away; 
Oh,  you  have  sat  and  listened  till  you're  wild  for 
flight 

(And  that's  all  right) 
But  you  have  never  criticised  a  single  song 

(And  that's  all  wrong) 
Lo,  would  you  add  despair  unto  despair? 
Do  you  not  care 

That  all  these  lesser  children  of  the  Muse 
Shall  sing  to  you  exactly  as  they  choose? 

You  are  ungrateful,  Fowl.    I  wrote  a  poem, 
Once,  in  the  middle  of  August,  intending  to  show 

'em 

That  you  should  not 
Be  shot: 

What  saw  I  then,  what  heard? 

59 


Multitudes — multitudes,    under    the    tree    they 

stirred, 

And  with  too  many  a  broken  note  and  wheeze 
They  sang  what  each  did  please.  .  .  . 

And  Thou, 

O  bird  of  emeraldine  beak  and  brow, 

Thou  sawest  it  all,  and  did  not  even  cackle, 

Crackle! 


60 


Henry  van  Dyke 

(Who,  although  for  different  reasons,  did  not 
care  for  the  Crackle  either.) 

THE  ROILING  OF  HENRY 
(A  SONG  OF  THE  GRATING  OUTDOORS) 

Bird,  thou  art  not  a  Veery, 

Nor  yet  a  Yellowthroat, 
Ne'erless,  I  knew  thy  gentle  song, 

Long,  long  e'er  I  could  vote; 
Thou  art  not  a  Blue  Flower, 

Nor  e'en  a  real  Blue  Bird; 
Yet  there's  a  moral  high  and  pure 

In  all  thy  likings  heard: 
"Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack — 

Go  on  and  ne'er  look  back!" 

The  noble  tow'rs  of  Princeton 

Hear  high  thy  pensive  trill, 
And  eke  my  ear  has  heard  thee 

The  while  I  fished  the  rill; 
Thy  note  rings  out  at  daybreak 

Before  I  rise  to  toil ; 
Thou  counselest  Persistence; 

Thy  song  no  stone  can  spoil ; 
"Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack — 

Go  on  and  ne'er  look  back!" 
61 


Yet,  Bird,  there  is  a  limit 

To  all  I've  undergone; 
From  five  o'clock  till  five  o'clock 

Thou'st  chanted  o'er  my  lawn; 
I  cannot  get  my  work  done  .  .  . 

I  give  thee,  Bird,  advice; 
If  thou  wouldst  save  thy  skin  alive, 

Let  me  not  warn  thee  twice, 
"Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack — 

Go  on  and  ne'er  look  back!" 


Cole  Young  Rice 

(Who  came  out  rather  tired  from  trying  to 
choose  a  new  suit,  and  could  not  get  it  off 
his  mind.) 

PANTINGS 

Pantings,  Pantings,  Pantings! 

Gents'  immanent  furnishings! 
On  a  mystic  tide  I  ride,  I  ride, 

Of  the  clothes  of  a  million  springs! 
I  take  the  train  for  the  suburbs 

Or  I  sweep  from  Pole  to  Pole, 
But  where  is  the  window  that  holds  them  not, 

Gents'  furnishings  of  my  soul! 

Pantings,  Pantings,  Pantings! 

Shirtings  and  coatings  too! 
How  can  I  think  of  mere  birds,  nor  blink 

In  the  Cosmic  Hullaballoo? 
The  hot  world  throbs  with  Immenseness, 

The  Voidness  plunks  in  the  Void, 
And  all  of  it  doubtless  has  something  to  do 

With  Employer  and  Unemployed! 


63 


Pantings!  Pantings!  Pantings! 

Trousers  through  all  the  town! 
And  the  tailors'  dummies  with  iron  for  tummies 

Smirk  in  their  blue  and  brown; 
I  float  in  a  slithering  simoon 

Of  fevered  and  surging  tints, 
And  my  ears  are  dulled  with  the  mighty  throb 

Of  the  Male  Best  Dressers'  Hints: 

Pantings!  Pantings!  Pantings  I 

My  wardrobe,  they  send  it  fleet.  .  .  . 

Ah,  the  Is  and  the  Was  and  the  Never  Docs.  .  .  . 
And  the  Cosmos  at  last  complete! 


Bliss  Carman 

(Who,  incidentally,  happened  to  be  correct.) 

THE  WILD 

Ho,  Spring  calls  clear  a  message.  .  .  . 

The  Crackle  is  not  green.  .  .  . 
The  Mighty  Mother  Nature 

She  knows  just  what  I  mean. 

The  lilac  and  the  willow 

The  grass  and  violet 
They  are  my  wild  companions 

W'here  I  was  raised  a  pet. 

The  secrets  of  great  nature 
From  childhood  I  have  heard; 

Oh,  I  can  tell  a  wild  flower 
Swiftly  from  a  wild  bird; 

And  Gwendolen  and  Mama 

And  Myrtle  (dead  all  three  .  .  . 

Among  my  wildwood  sweethearts 
Was  much  mortality). 


If  they  my  loves  returning 

Might  gather  'neath  these  boughs 
(Oh,  they  would  sniff  at  pear-trees 

Who  loved  the  Northern  Sloughs), 

Their  wild  eternal  whisper 
Would  back  me  up,  I  ween: 

"This  bird  is  not  a  Crackle: 
A  Crackle  is  not  green." 


66 


Grace  Hazard  and  Hilda  Conkling 

THEY  SEE  THE  BIRDIE 

(Mrs.  Conkling  points  maternally.) 
Oh,  Hilda!  see  the  little  Bird! 
If  you  will  watch,  upon  my  word 
He  will  come  out;  a  Veery  *  he 
As  like  an  Oboe  as  can  be: 
He  shall  be  winged,  with  a  tail, 
Mayhap  a  Beak  him  shall  not  fail! 
And  I  will  tell  him,  "Birdie,  oh, 
This  is  my  Hilda,  you  must  know— 
And  oh,  what  joy,  if  you  but  knew— 
She  shall  make  poetry  on  you!" 

(The  Birdie  obliges,  whereupon  Hilda  recites 
obediently,  while  her  mother,  concealing 
herself  completely  behind  the  bird,  takes 
dictation.) 

Oh,  my  lovely  Mother, 

That  is  a  Bird: 

Sitting  on  a  Tree. 

I  am  a  Little  Girl 


*  Note  by  the  Collator :  I  do  not  pretend  to  explain  the 
vecry-complex  of  American  poets.  They  all  seemed  pos 
sessed  to  rub  it  into  the  poor  bird  that  he  wasn't  one. 

67 


Standing  on  the  Ground. 
I  see  the  Bird, 
The  Bird  sees  me. 

Bird! 

Color  of  Grass! 

I  love  my  Mother 
More  than  I  do  You! 


68 


Theodosia  Garrison 

(Who  began  cheerfully,  but  reduced  her  audi 
ence  to  tears,  which  she  surveyed  with  com 
placence,  by  the  third  line.) 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  BIRD  DANCE  OF 
PIERRETTE 

Pierrette's  mother  speaks: 

"Sure  is  it  Pierrette  yez  are,  Pierrette  and  no 

other? 
(Och,  Pierrette,  me  heart  is  broke  that  ye  shud 

be  that  same — ) 
Pertendin'  to  be  Frinch,  an'  me  yer  poor  ould 

Irish  mother 
That  named  ye  Bridget  fer  yer  aunt,  a  dacent 

Dublin  name! 
Ye  that  was  a  pious  girrl,  decked  out  in  ruffled 

collars, 

With  yer  hair  that  docked  an'  frizzed — if  Fa 
ther  Pat  shud  see! 
Dancin'  on  a  piece  o'  grass  all  puddle-holes  an' 

hollers, 

Amusin'  these  quare  folk  that's  called  a  Pote- 
Society!" 

69 


But  it  was  Bridget  Sullivan, 

Her  locks  flour-sprent, 
That  danced  beneath  the  flowering  tree 

Leaping  as  she  went. 

"If  there's  folk  to  stare  at  ye  ye'll  dance  for  all 

creation 
(Since  ye  went  to  settlements  'tis  little  else  I've 

heard), 

Letting  yer  good  wages  go  to  chat  of  'inspiration,' 
Flappin'  up  an'  down  an'  makin'  out  yez  are  a 

burrd! 

Sure  if  ye  got  cash  fer  it  'tis  little  I'd  be  sayin' 
(Och,  Pierrette,  stenographin'  'tis  better  wage 

ye'll  get,) 
Sorra  wan  these  long-haired  folk  has  spoke  till  ye 

o'  payin', 
Talkin'  of  yer  art,  an'  ye  a  leppin'  in  the  wet!" 

But  it  was  Bridget  Sullivan, 

Her  head  down-bent, 
Went  back  on  the  thrce-thirtcen, 

Coughing  as  she  went. 


70 


William  Griffith 
(Who  felt  for  her.) 

PIERRETTE   REMEMBERS  AN   ENGAGE 
MENT 

Pierrette  has  gone — but  it  was  not 

Exactly  that  she  lied; 
She  said  she  had  to  catch  a  train; 

"I  have  a  date,"  she  cried. 

To  keep  a  sudden  rendezvous 

It  came  into  her  mind 
As  quite  the  quickest  way  to  flee 

From  parties  of  this  kind; 

She  went  most  softly  and  most  soon, 

But  still  she  made  a  stir, 
For,  going,  she  took  all  the  men 

To  town  along  with  her. 


Edgar  Guest 

(Who  has  an  air  of  absolute  belief  in  the  True, 
the  Optimistic,  and  the  Checkbook.  He 
seems  yet  a  little  ill  at  ease  among  the 
others,  and  to  be  looking  about  restlessly 
for  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox.) 

AIN'T  NATURE  WONDERFUL! 

How  dear  to  me  are  home  and  wife, 
The  dear  old  Tree  I  used  to  Love, 

The  Pear  it  shed  on  starting  life 

And  God's  Outdoors  so  bright  above! 

For  Virtue  gets  a  high  reward, 

Noble  is  all  good  Scenery, 
So  I  will  root  for  Virtue  hard, 

For  God,  for  Nature,  and  for  Me! 


72 


Don  Marquis 

(Who,  it  appears,  refers  to  departments  which 
he  and  certain  of  his  friends  run  in  New 
York  papers.  He  swings  a  theoretical  bar 
rel  of  hootch  above  his  head,  and  chants:) 

THE  MEETING  OF  THE  COLUMNS 

Chris  and  Frank  and  I 

Each  had  a  column; 
Chris  and  I  were  plump  and  gay, 
But  not  so  F.P.A.: 

F.P.A.  was  solemn— 

Not  so  his  Column; 
That  was  full  of  wit, 

As  good  as  My  Column 
Nearly  every  bit! 
We  sat  on  each  an  office  chair 

And  all  snapped  our  scissors; 
Their  things  were  pretty  fair 

But  all  of  mine  were  Whizzers! 

Frank  wrote  of  Cyril, 

An  ungrammatic  sinner, 
But  I  wrote  of  Drink 

And  Chris  wrote  of  Dinner; 

And  Frank  kept  getting  thinner 
75 


And  we  kept  getting  plump — 
Frank  sat  like  a  Bump 

Translating  from  the  Latin, 
Chris  wrote  of  Happy  Homes 
I  wrote  of  Alcoholic  Foams, 

And  we  still  seemed  to  fatten; 
Frank  wrote  of  Swell  Parties  where  he  had  been, 
I  wrote  of  Whisky-sours,  and  Chris  wrote  of  Gin ! 
But  we  both  got  fatter, 
So  the  parties  didn't  matter, 
Though  F.P.A.  he  published  each  as  soon  as  he'd 
been  at  her.  .  .  . 

F.P.A.  went  calling 

And  sang  about  it  sorely  .  .  . 
"Pass  around  the  shandygaff  "  says  brave  old 

Morlcy! 
F.P.A.  played  tennis 

And  told  the  World  he  did.  .  .  . 
I  bought  a  stein  of  beer  and  tipped  up  the  lid! 
Frank  wrote  up  all  his  evenings  out  till  we  began 

to  cry, 
But  we  drowned  our  envy  in  a  long  cool  Rye! 

And  then  we  got  an  invitation,  Frank  and  Chris 

and  me, 
To  come  and  say  a  poem  on  a  Crackle  in  a  Tree: 

76 


But  Chris  and  I'd  had  twenty  ryes,  and  we  began 

to  cackle— 
"Oh,  see  the  ninety  pretty  birds,  and  every  one 

a  Crackle! 

A  Crackle  with  a  Hackle, 
A  ticklish  one  to  tackle 
A  tacklish  one  to  tickle  .  .  . 
To  ticker  .  .  . 

To  licker.  .  .  ." 
And  we  both  began  to  giggle 

And  woggle,  and  wiggle, 
And  we  giggled  and  we  gurgled 

And  we  gargled  and  were  gay  .  .  . 
For  we'd  had  an  invitation,  just  the  same  as 
F.P.A.! 


79 


Christopher  Morley 

(Acting,  in  spite  of  himself,  as  if  the  Bird 
were  his  long-lost  brother,  and  locating  the 
Crackle,  for  poetic  purposes,  in  his  own 
home.) 

THE  MOCKING-HOARSE  BIRD 

Good  fowl,  though  I  would  speak  to  thee 
With  wonted  geniality, 
And  Oxford  charm  in  my  address, 
It's  not  quite  easy,  I  confess: 
Suavitcr  in  modo's  hard 
When  poets  trample  one's  front  yard, 
And  this  is  such  an  enormous  crew 
That  you've  got  trailing  after  you! 
I'd  washed  my  youngest  child  but  four, 
Put  the  milk-bottles  out  the  door, 
Paid  my  wife's  hat-bill  with  no  sigh 
(Ah,  happy  wife!  Ah,  happy  I!) 
Tossed  down  (see  essays)  then  my  pen 
To  be  a  private  citizen, 
Written  about  that  in  the  Post, 
When  lo,  upon  the  lawn  a  host 
Of  Poets,  sprung  upon  my  sight 
Each  eager  for  a  Poem  to  write! 
80 


To  a  less  placid  bard  you'd  be 
A  flat  domestic  tragedy,— 
Bird — grackle — nay,  I'd  scarcely  call 
You  bird — a  mere  egg  you,  that's  all- 
Only  a  bad  egg  has  the  nerve 
To  poach  (a  pun! )  on  my  preserve! 
To  P.Q.S.  and  X.Y.D. 
(Both  columnists  whom  you  should  see) 
And  L.M.N    (a  man  who  never 
Columns  a  word  that  isn't  clever,) 
And  B.C.D    (who  scintillates 
Much  more  than  most  who  get  his  rates) 
A  thing  like  this  would  be  a  trial.  .  .  . 
It  is  to  me,  there's  no  denial. 

Why,  Bird,  if  they  would  sing  of  you, 
Or  Sin,  or  Broken  Hearts,  or  Rue, 
Or  what  Young  Devils  they  all  are, 
Or  Scarlet  Dames,  or  the  First  Star, 
Or  South-Sea-Jazz-Hounds  sorrowing, 
It  would  be  quite  another  thing: 
But,  Bird,  here  they  come  mousing  round 
On  my  suburban,  sacred  ground, 
And  see  my  happiness — it's  flat, 
You  wretched  Bird,  they'll  sing  of  that! 
They'll  hymn  my  Happy  Hearth,  and  later 
The  joys  of  my  Refrigerator, 
81 


Burst  into  song  about  the  points 
Of  Babies,  Married  Peace,  Hot  Joints, 
The  Jimmy-Pipe  I  often  carol, 
My  Commutation,  my  Rain-Barrel, 
And  each  Uncontroverted  Fact 
With  which  my  poetry  is  packed  .  .  . 
In  short,  base  Bird,  they'll  sing  like  me, 
And  then,  where  will  my  living  be? 


Franklin  P.  Adams 

(Coldly  ignoring  the  roistering  of  his  friends, 
addresses  the  Crackle  with  bitterness:) 

TO  A  CRACKLE 
(Horace,  Ode  XVIXXV,  p.  23) 

Bird,  if  you  think  I  do  not  care 
To  gaze  upon  your  feathered  form 

Rather  than  converse  with  some  fair 
Or  make  my  brow  with  tennis  warm; 

If  you  should  think  I'd  liefer  far 

Hear   your   sweet   song    than    fast   be 
driving 

Within  my  costly  motor  car 
And  in  my  handsome  home  arriving, 

If  you  should  think  I  would  be  gone 
Far  sooner  than  you  might  expect 

From  off  this  uncolumnar  lawn; 
Bird,  you'd  be  utterly  correct! 


83 


Tom  Daly 

(Showing  the  Italian's  love  of  the  Beautiful, 
which  he  makes  his  own  more  than  the 
Anglo-Saxon  dreams  of  doing.) 

CARLO  THE  GARDENER 

De  poets  dey  tinka  dey  gotta  da  tree, 
Dey  gotta  da  arta,  da  birda — but  me, 
I  lova  da  arta,  I  lova  da  flower, 
(Ah,  bella  fiorctta!)  I  waita  da  hour: 
I  mowa  da  grass,  I  rake  uppa  da  leaf— 
I  brava  young  Carlo — Maria!  fine  t'ief! 
I  waita 
Till  later. 

Da  poets  go  homa,  go  finda  da  sup', 
I  creep  by  dis  tree  and  I  digga  her  up, 
(Da  Grackla,  da  blossom,  da  tree-a  I  love, 
Per  Diof  and  da  art! )  So  I  giva  da  shove, 
I  catcha  da  birda,  I  getta  da  tree, 
I  taka  to  Rosa  my  wife,  and  den  she- 
She  gotta 
In  pottal 


Vachel  Lindsay 

(Bounding  on  toward  the  end  of  the  proceed 
ings  with  a  bundle  over  his  shoulder,  and 
making  the  rest  join  in  at  the  high  spots.) 

THE  HOBOKEN  CRACKLE  AND  THE 
HOBO 

(AN  EXPLANATION) 

As  I  went  marching,  torn-socked,  free,      [steadily] 
With  my  red  heart  marching  all  agog  in  front 

of  me 

And  my  throbbing  heels 
And  my  throbbing  feet 
Making  an  impression  on  the  Ho- 

[Witk  energy} 

boken  street 

Then  I  saw  a  pear-tree,  a  fowl,  a  bird, 
And   the  worst  sort  of   noise   an 

_„.      .  ,  [With  surprise] 

Illmoiser  ever  heard! 
Banks — of — poets — round — that — tree— 
All  of  the  Poetry  Society  but  me! 
All    a-cackle,    addressed    it    as    a    [Chatteringly 

grackle  __'•'*'  parrots] 

Showed  me  its  hackle  (that  proved  it  was  a  fly) 

8s 


Tweet,  tweet,  tweet,  tweet,  tweet,  [Cooingly,    yet 

^     ,  with      imta- 

Gosh,  what  a  packed  street!  tience] 

The    Secretary,    President    and    TREASURER 

went  by! 

"That's  not  a  grackle,"  said  I  to  all  of  him, 
Seething  with  their  poetry,  iron-tongued,  grim, 
"That's  an  English  sparrow  on  that  limb!" 
And  they  all  went  home 
No  more  to  roam. 
And  I  watched  their  unmade  poetry 

,.,       e  [Intcmperately] 

raise  up  like  foam 

And  I  took  my  bandanna  again  on   r^-^  caim 

my  Stick  majesty] 

And  I  walked  to  the  grocery  and  took  my  pick 
And    I    bought    crackers,    canned  [With    domes- 

shrimps,  corn,  Sfr'** 

Codfish  like  flakes  of  snow  at  morn, 
Buns  for  breakfast  and  a  fountain-pen 
Laid  down  change  and  marched  out  again 
And  I  walked  through  Hoboken,  torn-socked,  free, 
With  my  red  heart  galumphing  all  agog  in  front 

of  me! 


86 


DIES  ILLA:  A  BIRD  OF  A  MASQUE 

Being  a  Collaboration  by  Percy  Mackaye, 

Isabel  Fiske  Conant  and  Josephine 

Preston  Peabody. 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

THE  CRACKLE  (who  does  not  appear  at  all) 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  REJECTION  SLIP 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  MODERN  POETRY 

CHORUS  OF  ELDERLY  LADIES  WHO  APPRECIATE  POETRY 

CHORUS  OF  CORRESPONDENCE,  KINDERGARTEN,  GRAMMAR, 
HIGH-SCHOOL  AND  COLLEGE  CLASSES  is  VERSE- 
WRITING 

CHORUS  OF  YOUNG  MEN  RUNNING  POETRY  MAGAZINES 

CHORUS  OF  POETRY  CRITICS 

CHORUS  OF  ASSORTED  CULTURE-HOUNDS 

THE  PERSON  RESPONSIBLE  FOR  THE  POETIC  RENAISSANCE 
IN  AMERICA 

THE  NON-POETRY  WRITING  PUBLIC  (Composed  of  two  citi 
zens  who  have  never  learned  to  read  or  write) 

SEMI-CHORUSES  OF  MAGAZINE  EDITORS  AND  BOOK-PUB 
LISHERS 

ATE,  GODDESS  OF  DISCORD 

THE  MUSE 

TIME:  Next  year.  PLACE:  Everywhere.  SCENE:  A  level 
stretch  of  monotony. 

THE    SPIRIT    OF    THE    REJECTION    SLIP    (Entering 

despairingly) 

Alas— in  vain!    Yet  I  have  barred  the  way 
As  best  I  might,  that  this  great  horror  fall 
Not  on  the  world.    Returned  with  many  thanks 
And  not  because  oj  lack  of  merit,  I 
89 


Have  said  to  twenty  million  poets  .  .  .  nay  .  .  . 
Profane  it  not,  that  word  ...  to  twenty  million 
Persons  who  wasted  stamps  and  typewriting 
And  midnight  oil,  to  add  unto  the  world 
More  Bunk.  ...  In  vain — in  vain! 
(She  sinks  down  sobbing.) 

(From  right  and  left  of  stage  enter  Semi- 
Choruses  of  Magazine  Editors  and  Book 
Publishers,  tearing  their  hair  rhythmic 
ally.) 

SEMI-CHORUS    OF   EDITORS 

We  have  mailed  their  poems  back 
To  every  man  and  woman-jack 
Who  weigh  the  postman  down 
From  country  and  from  town; 
But  all  in  vain,  in  vain, 
They  mail  them  in  again! 

SEMI-CHORUS  OF  PUBLISHERS 

Though  we've  sent  them  flying, 
We  are  nearly  dying, 
From  the  books  of  poetry 
Sent  by  people  unto  we; 
In  vain  we  keep  them  off  our  shelves, 
They  go  and  publish  them  themselves! 
oo 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    REJECTION    SLIPS 

All,  bravely  have  ye  toiled,  my  masters,  aye, 
And  I've  toiled  with  you  ...  All  in  vain,  in 
vain — 

(Enter,  with  a  proud  consciousness  of  duty 
well  done,  the  Chorus  of  Correspondence, 
Kindergarten,  Grammar,  High-School  and 
College  Classes  for  Writing  Verse.  They 
sing  Joyously) 

The  Day  has  come  that  we  adore, 
The  Day  we've  all  been  working  for, 
Now  babies  in  their  bassinets 
And  military  school  cadets, 
And  chambermaids  in  each  hotel 
And  folks  in  slums  who  cannot  spell, 
Professors,  butchers,  clergymen, 
And  every  one,  have  grabbed  a  pen: 
The  Day  has  come — tra  la,  tra  lee— 
Everybody  writes  poetry! 

(They  do  a  Symbolic  Dance  with  Type 
writers,  during  which  enters  the  Chorus  of 
Young  Men  who  Run  Poetry  Magazines. 
These  put  on  horn-rimmed  spectacles  and 
chant  earnestly  as  follows) 


CHORUS  OF  YOUNG  MEN  WHO  RUN  POETRY  MAGA 
ZINES 

We're  very  careful  what  we  put  in; 

This  magazine  is  of  highest  grade; 

If  it  doesn't  appeal  to  our  personal  taste 

There's  no  use  sending  it,  we're  afraid; 

We  don't  like  Shelley,  we  don't  like  Keats, 

We  don't  like  poets  who're  tactlessly  dead; 

If  you  write  like  us  there  will  be  no  fuss — 

That's  the  best  of  verse,  when  the  last  word's 
said.  .  .  .  (Bursting  irrcprcssibly  into 
youthful  enthusiasm,  and  dashing  their 
horn  spectacles  to  the  ground) 

Yale!  Yale!  Yale! 

Our  Poetry! 

Fine  Poetry! 

Nobody  Else's  Poetry! 

Raw!  Raw!  Raw!  Rawl 


(Enter,  modestly,  the  Person  Responsible  for 
the  Poetic  Renaissance  in  America.  There 
are  jour  of  him — or  her,  as  the  case  may 
be — Miss  Monroe,  Miss  Rittcnhouse,  Mrs. 
Stork,  Mr.  Braithwaite.  The  Person 
stands  in  a  row  and  recites  in  unison:) 
92 


I've  made  Poetry 

What  it  is  today; 
Or  ...  at  least  .  .  . 

That's  what  people  say: 
Earnest-minded  effort 

Never  can  be  hid; 
The  Others  think  They  did  it— 

But— I— Did! 

SPIRIT     OF     THE     REJECTION     SLIP,    EDITORS     AND 

PUBLISHERS,  (faintly:) 
You  did?    (They  rush  out.) 
Person  Responsible  (still  modestly) 
Well,  so  they  say- 
But  I  have  to  go  away. 
I'm  due  at  a  lecture 

I  give  at  three  today.  (The  Person  goes  out 
in  single  file,  looking  at  its  watch.  As 
it  does  so,  there  enters  a  pale  and  di 
shevelled  girl  in  Greek  robes.  It  is  the 
Muse.) 
MUSE: 

In  Mount  Olympus  we  have  heard  a  noise  and 

crying 

As  swine  that  in  deep  agony  are  dying, 
A  voice  of  tom-cats  wailing, 
A  never  failing 

93 


Thud  as  of  rolling  logs: 

A  chattering  like  frogs, 

And  all  this  noise,  unceasing,  thunderous, 

Making  a  horrible  fuss, 

Cries  out  upon  my  name. 

Oh,  what  am  I,  the  Muse  and  giver  of  Fame, 

So  to  be  mocked  and  humbled  by  this  use? 

I— I,  the  Muse! 

(Enter  Spirit  of  Modern  Poetry,  a  lady  with 
bobbed  hair,  clad  lightly  in  horn  glasses 
and  a  sex-complex.) 

SPIRIT   OF    MODERN    POETRY 

You're  behind  the  times;  quite  narrow, 
Don't  you  want 
Culture  for  the  masses? 

MUSE 

No;  I  am  Greek;  we  never  did. 
Besides,  it  isn't  culture. 

CHORUS     OF     ELDERLY     LADIES     WHO     APPRECIATE 

POETRY,  (trotting  by  two  by  two  on  their 

way  to  a  lecture,  pause.) 
Oh,  how  narrow!     Oh,  how  shocking! 
She's  no  Muse!     She  must  be  mocking! 

94 


MUSE  (sternly,  having  lost  her  temper  by  this 

time) 
I  am  a  goddess.    Trifle  not  with  me. 

ELDERLY  LADIES  (with  resolute  tolerance) 
She  looks  like  a  pupil  of  Isadora  Duncan, 
But  she  says  she's  a  goddess;  what  folly  we'd 

be  sunk  in 
To  believe  a  word  she  says;  she  needs  broad'- 

ning,  we  conjecture  - 
My  dear,  come  with  us  to  Miss  Rittenhouse's 

lecture ! 

MUSE  (lifting  her  arms  angrily) 
Ate,  my  sister! 

ATE,  (behind  the  scenes)  I  come! 

(Enter  from  one  side,  Band  of  Poets — very 
large — with  lyres  and  wreaths  put  on 
over  their  regular  clothes.  From  the 
other  side,  a  chorus  of  Poetry  Critics.  At 
their  end  steals  Alt,  Goddess  of  Discord, 
disguised  as  a  Critic  by  means  of  horn 
glasses  and  a  Cane.  The  Poets  do  not 
see  her — or  anything  but  themselves,  in- 
deed.  They  sing  obliviously) 
95 


My  maiden  aunt  in  Keokuk 

She  writes  free  verse  like  anything; 
My  great-grandmother  is  in  luck, 

She's  sold  her  three-piece  work  on  Spring; 
My  mother  does  Poetic  Plays, 

My  dad  does  rhymes  while  signing  checks, 
And    my    flapper    sister — we    wouldn't    have 
missed  her— 

She's  writing  an  epic  on  Sin  and  Sex — 
The  world's  as  perfect  as  it  can  be, 
Everybody  writes  Poetry! 

CHORUS  OF  CRITICS,  (chanting  yet  more  loudly:) 
The  world's  not  quite  as  perfect  as  it  yet  might 

be, 
Excepting  for  our  brother-critics'  poetry! 

The  Spirit  of  Discord  now  creeps  softly  out  from 
among  the  Critics.) 

SPIRIT    OF    DISCORD 

Rash  poets,  think  what  you  would  do— 
There's  nobody  left  you  can  read  it  to! 

POETS  (aghast) 

We  never  thought  of  that! 
An  audience,  'tis  flat, 
96 


Is  our  most  pressing  need, 
To  listen  to  our  screed; 
(Each  turns  to  his  neighbor) 
Base  scribbler,  get  thee  hence 
Or  be  my  audience! 

Semi-chorus : 

We  want  to  write  ourselves!     We'll  not! 

Semi-chorus : 

But  what  you  write  is  merely  rot! 
Hush  up  and  let  me  read 
My  great,  eternal  screed! 


AT£  (stealthily)  Ha,  ha! 

(Each  Poet  now  draws  a  Fountain  Pen  with 
a  bayonet  attached,  and  kills  the  Poet 
next  him,  dying  himself  immediately  from 
the  wound  of  the  Poet  on  the  other  side. 
They  fall  in  neat  windrows.  There  are 
no  Poets  left.  Meanwhile  the  Non-Poetry- 
Writing  Public,  two  in  number,  who  have 
been  shooting  crap  in  a  corner,  rise  up  at 
the  sound  of  the  fall,  take  three  paces  to 
the  front,  and  speak:) 

What's  the  use  o'  poetry,  anyhow?  /  always 
say,  'if  you  wanta  say  anything  you  can  say  it  a 
lot  easier  in  prose.'  /  never  wrote  no  poetry,  and 
I  get  along  fine  in  the  hardware  business. 

97 


CHORUS       OF       CRITICS      AND      CULTURE-HOUNDS, 

(thrilled:) 
Ah,  a  new  Gospel  I 
Let  us  write  Reviews 
About  it! 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  REJECTION  SLIP  (entering, 
and  addressing  the  Editors  and  Publishers 
who  follow  her.) 

Now  I  shall  pass  from  you.  My  task  comes 
to  a  close. 

I  wing  my  hallowed  way 

To  the  Fool-Killer's  Paradise,  and  there  for  aye 

Repose. 

EDITORS  AND  PUBLISHERS 

Nay,  our  great  helper,  nay! 

Leave  us  not  yet,  our  only  comforter  I 

We'll  need  thee  still; 

Folks  who  write  poetry 

There's  naught  on  earth  can  kill! 

(During  this  the  CULTURE-HOUNDS,  CRITICS, 
etc.,  have  clustered  round  the  NON-POETRY- 
WRITING  PUBLIC,  whispering,  urging,  and 
pushing.  It  rises  and  scratches  its  head 
in  a  flattered  way,  and  finally  says:) 
98 


B'gosh,  I  do  believe, 

Now  that  you  speak  of  it,  I  could  do  just  as 

good 
As  any  of  those  there  fool  dead  fellers  could! 

(The  late  Non-Poetry-Writing  Public  are 
both  immediately  invested  with  lyres,  and 
wreaths  which  they  put  on  over  their 
derby  hats.) 

SEMI-CHORUS  OF  EDITORS  (to  Spirit  oj  Rejection 

Slip) 
You  see?    Too  late! 

SEMI-CHORUS  OF   PUBLISHERS 

Who  shall  escape  o'ermastering  tragic  fate? 
(They  go  off  and  sob  in  two  rows  in  the 
corners,  while  the  rest  oj  the  Masque, 
except  ATE,  who  looks  at  them  as  if  she 
weren't  through  yet,  and  the  MUSE,  form 
up  to  do  a  dance  symbolic  of  One  Being 
Born  Every  Minute.  They  sing:) 


99 


The  Day  has  come  that  we  adore, 
The  Day  we've  all  been  working  for; 
The  Day  has  come,  tra  la,  tra  lee! 
Everybody  writes  Poetry! 

THE  MUSE  (unnoticed  in  the  background) 
Farewell. 


100 


Arthur  Guitcrman 

(He  recites  with  appropriate  gestures.) 

A  TREE  WITH  A  BIRD  IN  IT:  A  RHYMED 
REVIEW 

It  seems  that  Margaret  Widdemer 
Possessed  a  Tree  with  a  Bird  in  it, 

And  being  human,  prone  to  err. 

Thought  'twould  be  pleasant  to  begin  it, 

Or  christen  it,  as  one  might  say, 
By  asking  poets  closely  herded 

To  come  around  and  spend  the  day 

And  sing  of  what  the  Tree  and  Bird  did. 

(Poor  girl!     When  next  she  takes  her  pen 
Some  bromide  critic's  sure  to  say, 

"Don't  dare  do  serious  work  again— 
This  stuff  is  your  true  metier!") 

No  sooner  said  than  done;  the  bards 
Rush  out  in  quantities  surprising, 

And,  overflowing  four  front  yards 
They  carol  till  the  moon  is  rising; 


101 


With  ardor,  or,  as  some  say,  "pash," 

In  song  kind  or  satirical, 
Asking,  apparently,  no  cash, 

They  make  their  offerings  lyrical. 

I'd  be  the  first  a  spear  to  break 
For  Poesy ;  but  this  to  tackle  .  .  . 

It  seems  a  lot  of  fuss  to  make 

About  one  Tree  and  one  small  Crackle. 


102 


tmmasm 


BEBKXLE7 


UBBABI 


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mpiration  of  loan     erio          mppllcatlon  »»  made   1 


13 


IUL  ?3  192* 


FEB   2 


lOm-4/23 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


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